


Of Grace

by truethingsproved



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, canon!verse, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 19:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truethingsproved/pseuds/truethingsproved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She will not run when the fighting starts; she is bound to them as surely as they are bound to one another and she will not abandon her brothers. They beg her reconsider her unwavering loyalty but she drinks of their wine and smiles. Flesh of her flesh, blood of her blood, she is their Maria.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Grace

 The first time she comes to his bed there are bruises on her arm in the shape of fingers.

She skitters through a window and up the stairs and finds him asleep with a book beside him and a candle lit at his table. Blowing it out is what wakes him, and he sits up to move the book to his floor before laying back down, shifting over to make room for her to crawl into bed next to him. She does, and Enjolras tucks his nose into her thick, dark hair before letting out a contented hum.

“Your parents?” he murmurs, his voice husky from sleep, and Eponine nods. He doesn’t say another word, just slips his arm around her waist and tugs her closer to him. She laces her fingers into his and they fall asleep within minutes; she is exhausted to her very bones and he is safe.

\------

She does not wake for many hours, and when she does it is to find that Enjolras has left her wrapped in one of his coats while he scribbles something across a scrap of paper, some spare thought that he will otherwise forget. When she sits up, he glances over at her with a small smile. “Are you rested?” She nods, sitting up, and he turns his attention back to the words he’s rushing to pen.

It is easy to forget that beneath his talk of revolution and change Enjolras is as young as any of them, and it is strange to see him like this, in his Spartan rooms filled with books and notes, dirty dishes and cups piled neatly in a corner to be taken care of later. There are times she hates to remember it, when she sees his eyes burning with the passion that leaves you a husk of a human, a thing made of ash when that very same passion lacks the necessary fuel.

Still, while every one of their companions would open their homes and arms to her if she called on them, it is only Enjolras who would do so without question. She is still staring after him when he looks up, a quarter of an hour later, and frowns, his ideas spent. He turns his attention to her and the corner of his mouth tugs up in a small, crooked smile. As much as the others jeer that he is their Apollo, he is exceedingly human, and Eponine is almost disappointed that none of the others care to see it. “What is it?” he questions, his mouth turning into a good-natured frown, and she lifts one shoulder in a shrug.

“Thank you,” she begins, but the look on his face is as dismissive as it could be without being insulting.

“My home is yours,” he answers back almost vaguely. It’s the truth; she cannot count how many times Grantaire or Courfeyrac or Jehan has taken up residence in his quarters for a few nights, needing somewhere to go. Even Marius spends his nights here on occasion. Nothing in this world could touch his love for liberty, for freedom, for country, but if anything could, it would be his love for his friends.

\------

The next time Eponine slips into his bed she stays awake much longer, curling her fingers into his hair with a sort of amused reverence. He lets her, his head tucked on her shoulder and his book held just far enough for her to read as well.

Were he the god they all teased him for being, he would not seem so desperate for contact. It’s the simplest form of contact that he wants, which she gladly offers. A hand on his shoulder on the nights when he doubts, and doubt he does; she cannot count the times she has seen him with the ghost of sorrow in his eyes, as if he has been weeping for the men he leads when he fears he cannot lead himself.

And as surely as he is not the god they wish to believe, she is not the child they all assume. She will not run when the fighting starts; she is bound to them as surely as they are bound to one another and she will not abandon her brothers. They beg her reconsider her unwavering loyalty but she drinks of their wine and smiles. Flesh of her flesh, blood of her blood, she is their Maria. One or two watch her as if they’d like to own her and the only hands she wants across her sinner’s skin crave another.

Though there are others who know their Apollo better, it is Eponine’s fingers threaded through the golden curls and Eponine’s hands to which he clings when he feels like he is drowning. It’s a feeling which comes often.

\------

They speak of revolution and of grace and Enjolras is sure that if there’s any in this world, it was never granted to him. What kind of man, he reasons, leads his fellows into war to be soaked in their own blood and the blood of their kin? Eponine keeps her fingers laced in his while he speaks, his eyes hazy with drink and his clumsy tongue slipping on the confession. He will not speak of this to Marius, whose bright eyes and brilliant smile give the others reason for hope. He cannot speak of this to Grantaire, whose very being depends on Enjolras’ strength.

“Do you know how it aches to doubt?” he slurs, and Eponine, full of grace, takes his face in both her hands and kisses the sadness from his streaming eyes all while he clings to her like a child to his mother. He is human, so human, and more breakable than the rest of them, and it is because he breaks so easily that he stands in front of them, weeping when he fires.

He will not lead his men anywhere he will not himself go, and that, Eponine thinks, is deserving of all the grace there is.

\------

They stay in their café until those hours before sunrise and the sky is somehow both ink and blood. Most of the others are gone; Courfeyrac and one of his admirers are still curled in a seat in the corner, but it is Jehan, Grantaire, Marius, Enjolras, and Eponine who remain the longest, sharing the last of a bottle of wine.

“You should free yourself of our company while you still can,” Grantaire informs her affectionately, and Jehan’s soft smile turned on her coaxes a smile of her own.

“Our darling Persephone, cast down amongst such brutish men,” he offers. “Eat of the food of the underworld and you shall be bound to it.”

“Is this wine, then, the food of the underworld?” Marius cuts in, and Grantaire nods, raising his eyebrows.

They turn to Eponine as if expecting her to leave, but instead she holds her hand out expectantly for the bottle. “Give me the wine,” she instructs, and it’s Enjolras who hands it to her. Their fingers brush over the bottle and he smiles as she takes it and drinks. When she sets the bottle down it is to a soft cheer. “Consider me bound.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have an exam tomorrow and so idk when I'll be able to post the next part of TRTMB so here, have some Eponine/Enjolras friendship feelings?
> 
> Endless thanks to everyone who's been reading these and commenting--your comments make my day, they really do. And massive thanks to the readers who have taken my words and made them into ART (!!!). In addition to that gorgeous pic of Enjolras and Grantaire, there is also this beautiful graphic floating along in cyberspace, and it's perfection.
> 
> http://jehanprouvaired.tumblr.com/post/41385548544/marius-he-smells-wonderful-and-it-feels-a-little
> 
> You're all beautiful and I adore you <3


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